warning: do not wear a skirt around lip gallagher.
not unless you’re strong enough to sacrifice the tantalizing view of his mouth groping your sex, the fabric an obscure veil over his head. it pathetically masks him, the shape of him lewdly rocks underneath, a visible reminder he’s present, hiding the obscenity of his actions as if your thighs don’t shake from the intensity and you’re not aware of him on his knees for it. the flat of his tongue swipes the sticky webbing at your hole, drool and slick travel down the dip of his lower lip, mix messily onto his chin. one hand rests right where your ass connects to your thigh, his other arm unconventionally slung atop of your open leg the same way one would hold a guitar. fine tunes your shrieks, plucks sensitive strings. you tiptoe your foot on the coffee table, tilt your head back, join the back of it with the wall behind for purchase, for solid foundation, for solace from the wicked poke and prod of his nose on your clit and his mouth slurping and tonguing your folds.
you reach for his hair and meet the heated texture of your skirt draped over the tufts, curl intentional digits around the cloth and his hair simultaneously, securing his partition, binding him to you, a part of your outfit, an accessory to your fitting. and, fuck, only one thing on him fits better inside you than his flicking, greedy tongue, which you’ve no doubt you’ll feel after he stops.
his girth stretching and molding, notching inside of you, bless it, his wet lips heaving near your ear: “skirt stays on.”